


glory, glory

by lordsanga



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M, have you SEEN one h. twinks?????, i was compelled by the circumstances, i will write daddy kink for my lovely friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:47:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22024879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordsanga/pseuds/lordsanga
Summary: Back in those days it was like Mauricio was on his mind all the time, like Harry could only look at himself through the manager’s gaze, trying to figure out what he could see in him, what hedidsee in him.
Relationships: Harry Winks/Mauricio Pochettino
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15





	glory, glory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CrookedRain_CrookedRain (OurFontIsBigger)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OurFontIsBigger/gifts).

> This work is for my beloved J, because you deserve everything in the world, including but not limited to d*ddy porn. I love you and I hope only to prolifically feed all of your kinks this 2020 and forwards <3. 
> 
> None of this would have been possible without [dewinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dewinter/pseuds/dewinter) patiently weeding through the monstrosity of my tenses, displaying supernatural skill in betaing rapidly while simultaneously engaging me in chat of Mousa Dembele's sex skills and supplying me with plenty of encouragement and keen enabling. You're a star. 
> 
> H is Harry Kane, for those not in the know.

He’s driving when he gets the texts.

There’s a few, one after the other in quick succession, buzzing insistently and interrupting Chris Martin’s crooning as he winds his way through the traffic post-training. He doesn’t check them till he hits a light, hitting on the notification from H first.

_ Poch gone _ , says the text. Harry stares at his phone until there’s an impatient honk behind him, startling him into noticing the light has long turned green. He takes another second, and then quickly takes a sharp turn right, waving his hand out apologetically from the window. He picks up his phone with his free hand when he’s down the familiar route, distracted from the road briefly, texting, _ coming now. _

He thinks Mauricio has started to see the writing on the wall. He’s been looking tired these days, speeches to the team distracted and short, not staying too long to celebrate with them after wins, not lingering to comfort them after the defeats. He still tells them all he’s only a knock away, and Harry still believes that, though he hasn’t been taking him up on it recently. He’s been distracted too; all of them have. It’s been a distractible sort of season, slow and broken like it’s cursed, rainy draws eked out to get them up to their lowest points tally for almost ten years.

It felt like something ended after Everton, anyway, sitting on the coach back from Liverpool and the dull silence broken only with the sounds of Sonny trying to stifle an occasional sob. Harry was sitting behind the gaffer, feeling nauseous as he tried not to replay Gomes’s fall over and over in his head, hear the sickening crack and twist. Eventually, he tapped Mauricio’s shoulder, looking for something to get him out of his own head. It was the last long conversation he had with him, the manager serious and gentle, shifting in his seat to look at Harry properly, hand warm on his knee as he listened to Harry whisper, words tangled up with each other, muddled and upset.

H’s car is already at Mauricio’s driveway when Harry pulls in, parked alongside a couple of others, Hugo and Dier, from what Harry can recognise. Eric is the one who lets him in when he rings, face falling briefly when he registers who it is. 

“Thought you were Dele,” he says, opening the door.

“Oh right, on his way up, is he?” Harry says, looking over Eric’s shoulder for Mauricio and not waiting for his response. Eric pats his back as he brushes past him, spotting Mauricio back in the living room and nearly tripping on his laces to make it by his side.

It hurt more because Mauricio had been the start of it all. For the club, of course, it had been written about endlessly, journalists tripping over themselves to fawn over the transformation: hadn’t finished more than twice in the top four in their premier league history before him, broken records and heroic firsts. But he’d also started it for him, eighteen and summoned into the new manager’s office, nervously fidgeting with his fingers as Mauricio looked right through him, telling him that McDermott'd been singing his praises and laughing at the bemused expression on Harry’s face.

It had been an odd time, hovering around the first team and around Mauricio, never being able to tell if he was in favour or in the way. He seemed an open man, all about easy laughter and long conversation, thick accent and kind eyes, but Harry felt like he could never figure out what was going on behind them.

Back in those days it was like Mauricio was on his mind all the time, like Harry could only look at himself through the manager’s gaze, trying to figure out what he could see in him, what he _ did _see in him. It wasn’t entirely imagined; he trained with the first team and travelled with them near constantly, and he could feel Mauricio’s eyes following him throughout training, boring, in his mind, into the cramp in his thighs and sweat on his brows as he pushed himself on the pitch till everything hurt.

The first team did the Gacon every pre-season; in the August of Mauricio’s third year, Harry was pulled into one as well, taken away from the reserves practice match he was meant to be starting. Mauricio clasped his shoulder when he got in, Harry apologizing for the lateness, one trainer still untied. Mauricio looked at him and squeezed his shoulder, telling him he was okay, telling him to get in there and show the manager how he’d been shaping up over the summer. 

He got cramp in his leg the second lap he ran, cursing to himself and glancing to his side, where H looked steely, pushing powerfully ahead of him to tap on the orange cone in front of them. The feeling was still all over him, that he couldn’t shake off Mauricio’s glance, and he grunted, pushing blindly past the cramp and forcing himself to the cone, and the next one, and the next, focus single minded.

Only H and Mousa were left when he finally stopped, legs giving way like jelly under him, on all fours and shirt soaked with sweat as he slowly pushed out his breaths, struggling to recover them. A hand reached out to lift him up, and when he clasped it, he realized it was Mauricio’s, pulling him up to his feet and pulling him into a one-armed hug. _ Good, _ Mauricio had mumbled, in a low voice against his ear, _ Good boy, _and Harry felt his legs were about to give way under him again.

The mood inside Mauricio’s is strange. They’re in his living room, him and H and Hugo and Dier, sat on the sofa facing Mauricio solemnly like Mauricio is on trial. Mauricio’s on a chair, reclined in it, holding a glass of wine, and it almost makes Harry laugh because it’s so _ him _. None of them know what to say, though H tries, offering things Harry thinks he might have learned in media training, easy platitudes and sincere apologies. He looks at Mauricio as H is talking; his grave, tired face, gaze rested on H, salt and pepper beard and black shirt, top buttons undone.

There isn’t much the rest of them have to add to H’s little speech when he’s done. It’s usually easy to talk to Mauricio: there’s something inviting about him, and god knows Harry’s done it enough, late evenings in Mauricio’s office and Mauricio looking at him, Harry spilling out everything, but he can’t find the words now. Hugo and Eric are quiet too, speaking in cautious, hesitant mumbles. There’s a brief moment when Mauricio looks right at him and Harry swallows, feeling his hand jerk as though it wants to reach out, like he could say with them something he couldn’t with his mouth. He doesn’t know if Mauricio notices, but he does get up, giving the boys a pleasant smile, telling them he’s going to go get more wine for himself, if they don’t mind.

In the beginning, it often felt like Mauricio was playing games with him. He travelled with the first team constantly, and then sat at the sidelines of every game, glancing at Mauricio and sighing in frustration every time he didn’t look over. Mauricio wouldn’t let him go out though, on loan, anywhere else, looking straight at him every time they talked about it, something warm and commanding in his voice when he told Harry, _ be patient _ , and, _ you trust me, yes? _

The funny thing was that there was something in Harry that trusted him, trusted him over his dad and his agent and his mates telling him to consider a loan, West Ham or Brighton or Norwich all interested, get more game time,stop trying to read the manager’s face constantly for a sign that minutes were coming.

It turned out he was right, though, and they were wrong. There was a wet, miserable November morning when Mauricio cornered him before the team sheets were released, close and intense and in Harry’s space when he talked, meeting his eyes and putting his hands on his shoulders. _ You’re going on, _ he said, and other things after that were lost to Harry in the dizzying mix of emotions. Nervousness, excitement, relief, terror: it began to spill over. 

He remembered everything that happened after in a funny sort of time warp: a blur of green and white and claret and blue and sweat and grass and thundering noise, for fifty one minutes, and then, time slowing down in the seconds after the ball hit his right foot and shot right over Randolph, bouncing to the back of the net. Then everything sped up again, celebrating with a blind run, running right up to Mauricio, jumping on him, thighs wrapping around him and arms around his neck. He was sweaty and slipping off of him, but Mauricio’s arms held him up, Harry straining his core with the effort. Mauricio said something then, lips against Harry’s ear, but it was lost as Dele surrounded them, then Jan, then Toby, then Chris, then Victor. Harry slid off Mauricio, losing him in the screaming and patting and hair ruffling surrounding him, but he caught his eye before he made it back to the pitch, shooting him a small, grateful smile before he ran back into place.

Dele gets to Mauricio’s half an hour later. It’s a bit of a relief when he does; he doesn’t make the atmosphere less solemn, but it breaks up the quiet, anyway, as he shuffles in and goes straight to Mauricio for a hug. They’re both such physical people, Harry thinks, observing them, Dele squeezing Mauricio and Mauricio patting his back when he pulls away. The conversation goes back to being muted when he takes a seat on the couch, however, still none of them able to find the right words, H instead engaging Mauricio in distracting conversation, asking Mauricio about his son’s last game for Spurs juniors. 

Dele eventually offers to make them all tea, and Harry jumps up from his chair at the opportunity, telling him he’ll help.

“It’s shit,” is the first thing Dele mumbles to him when they’re out of earshot of everyone else, Harry finding the kettle in Mauricio’s kitchen, Dele rummaging about for the teabags and the sugar.

Harry shakes his head, propping himself on the kitchen counter when he’s got the kettle on. He puts both hands on his face, taking a deep breath into them. “It’s fucked up is what it is mate, it really is, don’t know what they’re playing at, they know what he’s done for us, fuck.”

“D’you reckon it’s our fault?” Dele says, and it makes Harry’s stomach drop. Harry looks at him, and Dele stares at one of the mugs he’s taken out, absently spooning in way more sugar than they’re allowed into one. 

“Dunno, we just. We could have done better couldn’t we?” Harry looks up at Dele. “Wouldn’t have to get the sack if we was less shit.”

“You think?” Harry says, but it’s more to force himself to say something. He feels increasingly physically sick, queasily watching Dele mash the tea bag against the side of the cup. “Fuck me,” he breathes out. “Dunno, like, it’s not something we could have – like everyone has spells like – ah, fuck. Fuck.” 

“Want to say that again?” Dele mumbles, going to the fridge moodily for the milk. “Reckon he’d let us have a beer tonight?” he says, starting into the fridge, inviting Harry to give a short laugh.

“Fuck me, I could use one,” he says, and Dele smiles humourlessly. He picks up three mugs, a bit precariously, and eyes Harry.

“Coming?” he says, and Harry shakes his head.

“Give me a minute, yeah?” Harry says, and pinches his temple, closing his eyes. “Just going to – just need a minute,” he mumbles, and from the corner of his eyes he sees Dele shrugging, shaking his head as he leaves the kitchen.

Mauricio found him in the locker rooms after that game. He was still buzzing off of it; they all were, the thrill of the last gasp victory and the top of the table dizzyingly close in sight. There was singing and loud laughter, and Harry was just trying to extricate himself from it and go for a shower when Mauricio came in, glass of wine in hand and headed straight to Harry.

“Gaffer,” Harry said, stupidly, grinning too wide and nearly dropping his towel going to him, grabbing it with one hand and giving Mauricio a hug with the other, resting his head briefly on his shoulder, holding on to him tight. “I can’t thank you enough, starting me tonight, showing that faith in me, fuck me, what a night, I just—”

“You want to continue this conversation in my office?” Mauricio said, amused, pulling away. His hair was disheveled, and he was still wearing the tracksuit he had on out on the field, charmingly messy and comfortable. He raised his wine glass slightly in invitation, adding, “I think you deserve a celebration, no?” 

The _ I don’t have any clothes on _died somewhere in the back of Harry’s mind before he could vocalize it, and he ignored the boys laughing and cheering when he followed Mauricio out. He also ignored the slight shiver that ran through his body when Mauricio put a hand on his lower back, guiding him down the corridor.

Harry’s filling a glass of water from the sink when someone walks in. He assumes it’s Dele again, coming back for another mug or a refill. He turns around to tell him something off-hand about not finding that beer, when he sees it’s Mauricio, and stops halfway through his sentence.

Mauricio gives him a small smile, putting a hand on his shoulder, reaching over him to put his wine glass in the sink. Harry feels lost for words, again, but he feels compelled to say something, anything, because the silence filling up the moment is suffocating.

“There’s a filter,” Mauricio says, inviting Harry out of his own head.

“Sorry?”

“A filter – in the fridge, there’s filtered water.”

“Oh right,” says Harry, a bit dumbly, taking a moment to register it. “No it’s –I’m alright, cheers, this is fine.” 

“Okay,” Mauricio says, and his smile is pleasant. He turns around, away from Harry, and Harry feels a sudden desperation, saying, strained, “Gaffer – Poch – Mauricio—”

Mauricio turns around, and Harry shakes his head, feeling his words trip over themselves to come out. “Did we – I’m sorry that we let you down,” he says, and ignores Mauricio starting to shake his head and open his mouth to interrupt. “No—don’t – I know we did, they wouldn’t have given you the sack if we wasn’t playing such shit – I’m being fucking useless, too and I made you a promise and everything – it’s such shit, we didn’t – like if we knew what was at stake maybe we’d have kicked ourselves into gear sooner and –”

Mauricio’s stepped very close into his space, and he puts a hand on Harry’s cheek, rough and familiar and warm. His thumb runs across Harry’s cheekbone, and it’s enough to interrupt Harry’s flow, taking a deep, shaky breath.

“You don’t have to apologise to me,” Mauricio murmurs, stepping in even closer. “Do you hear that? None of you boys have to apologise to me.”

Mauricio’s close enough that Harry can smell the wine on his breath, feel his breathing against him. His voice is low, serious and intimate, and it’s Harry’s turn to shake his head, feeling his stomach twist. “We shouldn’t of,” he mumbles, and Mauricio thumbs his cheek more forcefully, as though in argument. “We shouldn’t – we could have tried harder.”

“Harry,” Mauricio mumbles, and there’s something about the way he says it. “You have never let me down,” he says, and when Harry shifts to look at him, they’re so close that their noses brush. Mauricio is looking right at Harry’s eyes, and Harry closes his. 

There’s something pushing him, and he leans in, feeling the sudden, hot shock as he presses his lips to Mauricio’s.

The boys took Mauricio out for dinner at the end of that season. The finish is bittersweet; the boys still stinging from that Chelsea game, all of the glory of the broken records and the highest finish for years dampened by the crush of that defeat, Harry sitting at the sidelines with a useless ankle, his ears burning the jeers of the Stamford Bridge crowd and feeling the longing ache of watching Leicester lift up the trophy. H and Hugo insisted they should celebrate how far they’ve come, anyway, ride the wave of the North London lights in white and navy, the fans who sang themselves hoarse and the highs of the promises for the season to come. 

They picked Nobu, expensive sushi and even more expensive sake, Harry coming out in his best jeans and smartest shirt, hair carefully gelled in place, sharing a ride with Dele to the restaurant and ignoring him laughing at his choice of boots. He found himself sitting right next to the manager at dinner, with Danny on the other side, spending the evening endlessly refilling their plates and glasses, laughing with the two of them about a blur of topics: box sets, Mauricio’s stories about Maradona in his playing days, Danny’s conviction that raw fish could give you cancer.

The lot of them were tipsy when the bills came around; Mauricio a little less than the boys, Harry decidedly more. Erik and Sonny were rousing the boys to take it to a bar for the after party; Harry shaking his head at the invitation, alcohol churning in his stomach and the tiredness beginning to set in heavily.

Mauricio offered him a ride home, a little amused smile on his lips when Harry nearly tripped over him on his way to the toilet. Harry was red, but Mauricio laughed it off, telling him he didn’t need him doing anything that could get him in the morning papers in a taxi, and that it wasn’t much out of his way.

The drive back up was longer than Harry remembered, but it was comforting to be in the quiet with Mauricio, gentle music on and the London lights rolling by. Mauricio told him, quiet, how he loved driving over the river, and Harry looked at him in the dim of the night, streetlights playing across his face.

When they reached his driveway, Harry unlocked the car door but didn’t get out straight away. He looked at Mauricio, who laughed at the seriousness of his gaze, and Harry shook his head.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, and Mauricio laughed again. “No—I mean it – genuinely, thank you, I know you didn’t have to back me this season, it was a risk, but you did, and we just – look where I am – look where we all are –and you just—”

Mauricio put a hand on his cheek, to either stop him or thank him, Harry didn’t know. “You’re special, you know,” Mauricio murmured, looking at him. “I just saw that in you. You are.”

The alcohol blurred the edges of his accent, softening and thickening the words. There was a sudden moment of clarity where Harry felt all too aware of everything, the feel of Mauricio’s palm to his cheek and the cold draft from where the car door was cracked open. Mauricio gave him a look, but it suddenly felt less inscrutable than it usually was; there was something about the alcohol and the dim light that made it all startling clear to Harry, his face readable like an open book. 

He didn’t remember who kissed who, but he remembered vividly how it felt; it was rough and wet and startlingly hot in the cold night, springing his body alive with a burst of stinging want. He remembered Mauricio’s thumb, smearing down on his bottom lip, dragging it down till Harry’s lips were parted and he made a startled, desperate sound.

It didn’t take them long to make it inside; they didn’t manage to make it to the bedroom, at least not for the first time. Mauricio pressed Harry to the wall, the weight of him comfortingly overpowering, lips against his neck and hands undoing the buttons on Harry’s shirt, Harry laughing breathlessly when Mauricio fumbled with them.

He fucked Harry over his dining table, and it was all shockingly hot, the press of his hands against Harry’s thighs, the feel of his shirt against Harry’s back, both too impatient to have him take it off. Every sensation felt hyper amplified, like he was on drugs or something, the cold of the wood pressed to his stomach, the feeling of his hair, snagged under Mauricio’s fingers, the strain in his thighs and the fleeting, laughable thought that passed over him about how angry Mauricio would be if this was how he did in his hammies. He nearly fell over when he came, stumbling over with the bliss and the relief of it, Mauricio wrapping an arm around his waist to hold him up. 

Mauricio kissed him in his bed after, too, kissed him and worked his lips down his body, Harry jerking wildly and grabbing the headboard to hold himself down. Mauricio’s beard tickled Harry’s tummy, making him laugh breathlessly, stomach trembling, but he swallowed the laugh down quickly when he felt the shock of Mauricio’s tongue on his skin, sliding down. In the end he was whispering _ please _ , over and over, _ please, _ and _ fuck _, and feeling, somehow, Mauricio’s smile against his thigh when he lost it the second time, toes curled and lips pressed to the pillow, trying to stifle a groan.

The kiss feels like it’s still stinging on Harry’s lips when Mauricio pulls away. There’s a split second where they look at each other, and suddenly their lips are together again. Harry feels his back pressed against the countertop, the edge pushing into his back, but he can’t feel the discomfort, because Mauricio’s hands are on his waist, fingers pushing against his sides, and the kiss is wet, dirty and intimate all at once. His hand goes, automatic, to Mauricio’s back, dragging his hand down his shirt, and they only stop when they’re out of breath, pulling apart as suddenly as they started, Harry’s hands dragging themselves off Mauricio’s shirt. 

Mauricio looks at him, eyes wide, looking the most lost that Harry’s ever seen him, and Harry puts a hand to his own lips, in slight shock at himself, at them.

“I—” says Mauricio, voice hoarse, and turns to look at the doorway. It’s empty, and that seems to bring Mauricio’s breath back, as he exhales and puts his hands over his face. “We can’t – here—,” he mumbles into his hands, and Harry looks at them, the gold watch and the matching ring on his finger and feels slightly sick. “Fuck – _ joder – _I am sorry. Harry, I am sorry, I don’t know what I—”

“No, it was me,” Harry says, feeling very hot and breathless, face flushed, frozen in his place. “Shit—Mauricio – I didn’t mean to—”

Mauricio takes a minute to rub his face till it’s less flushed. He looks older than all of those years ago, white hair peppering his beard and chest, older and fuller, but it doesn’t make Harry feel anything less intense in the base of his belly, everything twisting up inside together, worry, confusion, a sort of desperate want. His lips are still wet from the kiss, and Harry feels the shocking audacity of his desire in full force:_ fuck it, everything’s gone to shit anyway, what if you kissed me here again, put your hands under my shirt, my teammates in the living room and your wife upstairs, it doesn’t matter anymore _. 

“I didn’t mean to--” Harry repeats, a little quieter. “But--” 

“No--,” says Mauricio, and his voice is quiet too, shaky. He raises a hand up, and Harry can’t work out if it’s to silence him, or to touch his cheek again, convey something through the physical contact. In the end, it looks like Mauricio doesn’t dare, pulling his hand back to himself and swallowing. “I think we should go back out there.”

“Okay,” Harry breathes out, when Mauricio’s already turned to leave, taking his glass of water and holding it very tightly in his hand. “Okay.” 

They never talked about it after.

Mauricio was gone by the time Harry woke up, head pounding and the sunlight hurting his eyes, and if the house wasn’t in a state of disarray, table runner and napkins pushed unceremoniously off the table and clothes strewn on the way up the stairs, Harry would have wondered if he had dreamed it all.

It was the summer soon, anyway, family and beaches and travelling, a break from it all, and there was too much sun and alcohol and good food and ocean to really think about it too much. When he made it back in August, everything felt different – the glamour and the foreign-ness of Wembley to take in, the ceremony of nostalgia and change. Everything that season happened so fast: the title race heating up, holding Modric and Kroos off at the Bernabeu, the England call up, the injuries.

It was all fine, of course. Harry wasn’t some bird who’d been fucked by a footballer and was in his texts, _ why aren’t you calling me back, _ and _ what are we _ . He wasn’t going to barge into the manager’s for a chat, _ gaffer, could I have more minutes _ and, _ oh, by the way, what did it mean when you fucked me the best I’ve ever had it that night last summer _. It was funny how easy your brain could slot things into place, file them away because you didn’t need them anymore, make decisions for you: that there was nothing more to think about here; that there wasn’t something magnetic drawing him to Mauricio; that late at night, there wasn’t a creeping, forbidden want that made him feel flush with it, curling his hand into a fist and trying not to touch himself.

Mauricio was good to him as ever, too, keeping a close eye on him at training, having long chats with him about his game after, calling him the perfect midfielder to the papers. They didn’t go to dinner again after that season, but they did all linger back in the lockers after their final game, singing to Mauricio and having a laugh. Mauricio left before they all got too drunk, and that was fine, too, stopping to give Harry a brief hug on the way out, and flashing him a brief, proud smile.

They don’t stay too long after Harry returns from the kitchen. It’s getting late, past ten, and Mauricio tells them that they all still need to be at training on time tomorrow, and that they all need to get a move on with it. Harry goes out with the other boys, all of them giving Mauricio quick, tight, emotional hugs. They’re all making their way back to their cars when Harry pauses, shaking his head, and making a show of patting his pockets.

“Sorry –” he mumbles, to nobody in particular, although H looks up from where he’s opening his car door. “I just – I forgot something inside.”

Mauricio’s clearing up when he comes back in. His wife’s still not down, mercifully. He looks surprised when Harry comes back in, but Harry’s walking towards him, determined, squaring up to him and putting his arms around him in a hug.

Mauricio raises his arms doubtfully at first, surprised and uncertain, but soon they’re wrapped around Harry, too. Harry squeezes him tightly, and mumbles against him, “Just – I’m just—”

“Don’t say sorry again,” Mauricio mumbles against him. “Harry – you have nothing to be sorry for. If anyone has to say sorry, I--”

“I don’t want you to go,” Harry says, cutting him off, letting go of Mauricio and pulling away, reluctantly. It sounds pathetic, even to him, but there’s something in him that’s stopped caring, looking at Mauricio with as much open honesty as he can, lip trembling, face set. Mauricio nods, looking wistful, biting his lip and shaking his head.

“I’ll be around,” Mauricio says, finally, and “We’re still friends, no?”

“Friends,” Harry says, and laughs, short and humourless. “Friends -- fuck, _ friends _\--” he says, shaking his head. Mauricio’s expression doesn’t change, though, and he looks steadily at Harry till Harry shakes his head again.

“I mean it,” Mauricio says, and Harry feels a swell of uncertainty, looking at him, feeling more vulnerable than four years ago, standing in Mauricio’s office, begging for a start. “I -- Harry, I have always believed in you. I’ve always been your friend. I -- I will always be your friend.” 

“Friends,” Harry repeats again, but this time it’s slightly quieter, not mocking. He reaches out a hand tentatively, and Mauricio eyes it as he claps Mauricio’s hand and squeezes it. Mauricio hesitates, briefly, before he covers Harry’s hand with his own, and squeezes too. When they look at each other, Mauricio’s smile is warm.

**Author's Note:**

> Props to the Guardian, who basically [wrote](https://www.theguardian.com/football/2017/jan/27/harry-winks-spurs-tottenham) this fic for me. Seriously, it’s all there, Harry’s quiet devotion and worship of Poch, the naked-towel-glass-of-wine-cuddle story (the birthplace and centre of gravity inspiring this wretched fic), etc, etc. Right down to Harry [wrapping his thighs](https://static.standard.co.uk/s3fs-public/thumbnails/image/2016/11/21/12/harrywinks.jpg) around Poch after his first goal. Who needs fanfiction when you have sports journalism, eh? Also, the boys [did go](https://www.telegraph.co.uk/football/2019/11/24/harry-kane-spent-two-hours-mauricio-pochettinos-house-spurs/) and have a little chat with Poch after he heard about getting the sack (and we all know Dele was [especially affected](https://talksport.com/football/634725/dele-alli-mauricio-pochettino-sacking-tottenham-jose-mourinho/), little teacher’s pet that he is).
> 
> Here’s another picture of [Harry and Poch](https://i.dailymail.co.uk/1s/2019/11/19/18/21213950-0-image-m-5_1574188034819.jpg), just because.


End file.
